To Albion: The PCs
Sep. 9th, 2008 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tegyriusI'm starting up a local game of Twilight: 2013 this week, using the final draft rules. Due to the lack of rulebooks, I've done pre-gens for my players. The storyline is going to start off more-or-less in the vein of classic Twilight: 2000, with a ragged band of survivors trapped in Eastern Europe (Estonia, to be precise) in May 2013, during the final stages of the general collapse of civilization. I'm going to try to make at least semi-regular posts on the game's progress, though my last attempts with Vampire: The Requiem and Trinity have been somewhat abortive.
For now, let's meet our heroes.
Lieutenant Commander Dillon King, Royal Australian Navy (Fleet Air Arm), wasn't even supposed to be in this war. The helicopter pilot had the misfortune to be serving as an exchange officer on board HMS Montrose when the Twilight War erupted, and England suddenly had other priorities than repatriating an allied aviator whose services the Royal Navy needed anyway. King's Merlin went down on the Baltic coast in February, leaving him stranded. He linked up with EU ground forces, where he's been a reluctant infantryman ever since.
Dillon is 1.9 meters tall, in his late thirties, and healthily tanned despite the long, gloomy Balkan winter. He's usually attired in a hodgepodge of secondhand camouflage fatigues and, if expecting combat, his flight helmet and an assault rifle. As befits an aviator, his mustache is perfect.
Stabsunteroffizier Roswitha Kuhlberg's unladylike fascination with construction and destruction led her into a combat engineering career in the German Army, only a couple of years after the specialty was opened to women. Until the nuclear strike on her base in Malbork, she was a pionierpanzer commander. Now she's happy to have a good shovel.
Roswitha is a tall, athletic twentysomething blonde who never quite seems to get the dirt and grease out of her well-worn Bundeswehr camouflage. Although most of her prewar experience was in civil engineering - road, bridge, and building construction - the past year has put the "combat" back in her combat engineering job. Her primary weapon is whatever large armored vehicle is available - or, failing that, an assault rifle and grenade launcher.
Corporal Lee Watkins had the dubious fortune of being on the last flight out of Malbork before the nukes hit. Unfortunately, his destination was even worse. He and the rest of II Squadron of the RAF Regiment dropped on Siauliai, attempting to retake the Lithanian airport before the Russians could consolidate their hold on it. The squadron held up its end of the operation, but EU follow-on support never materialized. After the bloody breakout into the Lithuanian countryside, Lee spent a couple of months on his own before linking up with the rest of the team.
Lee's a working-class Brit of average height and (for 2013) average build, a man for whom the RAF was the best possible option for getting out of his old neighborhood. The euphemism that best applies to him is "good with his hands," whether the game is fisticuffs or his preferred light machine gun.
Casimir Rakowski was born in rural Poland in 1956, when the hand of Communism rested heavily upon the country. His father and grandfather had both been anti-Soviet partisans in World War II, and Casimir was raised on two generations' worth of hatred for the Russians. As soon as he was old enough, he was inducted into the family business: a loose coalition of poachers, smugglers, bootleggers, and occasional local assets for the NATO espionage community. The collapse of Communism in 1990 did little to affect Casimir's work, aside from making border crossings easier and bringing in occasional legitimate money as a hunting guide for rich Westerners. The Twilight War, on the other hand, was a serious obstacle to his daily routine. Although he was too old to volunteer for military service, Casimir's eyes were as good as ever, and a lifetime of hunting was more than enough to overcome the first twinges of arthritis. He linked up with a Polish infantry division whose commander was smart enough to see his value as a scout, and for the past year he's been back in the other family business: stalking and killing Russians.
Casimir is a squat, thick Slav, standing only 1.6 meters tall. With his graying beard, scarred and weathered face, and work-gnarled hands, he can fit into virtually any survivor community in the region without arousing so much as a second glance. He carries his old hunting shotgun, a Russian sniper rifle whose previous owner no longer needs it, and a fine collection of cutlery.
Jurgen Presser is a German freelance photojournalist with a history of sticking his lens in humanitarian crises. The good news is that he doesn't have to look very far for material now. The bad news is that he's just as deep in the shit as everyone else. Jurgen has a decent amount of rescue training and is a lifelong adrenaline junkie (rock climbing, SCUBA, and skydiving). He's staying with the rest of the group for protection, as the only embedding a lone reporter's likely to do these days is in fresh-turned earth.
No matter how bad things get, Jurgen somehow manages to look at least somewhat clean. He usually looks at least a decade younger than his actual age of 34. Although he's seen as much of the war as anyone else, Jurgen is as much of a moral compass as the group has. He does know how to use a rifle - barely - but if a fight breaks out, he's more likely to have a camera or his aid bag in his hands.
Michael Kemp was an infantry platoon leader in the Blues and Royals until a training accident ended his military career. After an extended convalescence, he used his regimental connections to secure a job in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, working for the military attache of the British embassy in Warsaw. He's a bit vague on how he wound up so close to the front lines during the latter months of the war, mumbling something about fact-finding missions and ministers without portfolios.
Michael is as close to average-looking as it's possible to get without a computer model. With a change of clothes and accent, he'd look like a native anywhere from his native Southampton to the Mediterranean basin. Although he carries a chopped-down assault rifle for the sake of appearances, he's much better up close and personal with a pistol.
For now, let's meet our heroes.
Lieutenant Commander Dillon King, Royal Australian Navy (Fleet Air Arm), wasn't even supposed to be in this war. The helicopter pilot had the misfortune to be serving as an exchange officer on board HMS Montrose when the Twilight War erupted, and England suddenly had other priorities than repatriating an allied aviator whose services the Royal Navy needed anyway. King's Merlin went down on the Baltic coast in February, leaving him stranded. He linked up with EU ground forces, where he's been a reluctant infantryman ever since.
Dillon is 1.9 meters tall, in his late thirties, and healthily tanned despite the long, gloomy Balkan winter. He's usually attired in a hodgepodge of secondhand camouflage fatigues and, if expecting combat, his flight helmet and an assault rifle. As befits an aviator, his mustache is perfect.
Stabsunteroffizier Roswitha Kuhlberg's unladylike fascination with construction and destruction led her into a combat engineering career in the German Army, only a couple of years after the specialty was opened to women. Until the nuclear strike on her base in Malbork, she was a pionierpanzer commander. Now she's happy to have a good shovel.
Roswitha is a tall, athletic twentysomething blonde who never quite seems to get the dirt and grease out of her well-worn Bundeswehr camouflage. Although most of her prewar experience was in civil engineering - road, bridge, and building construction - the past year has put the "combat" back in her combat engineering job. Her primary weapon is whatever large armored vehicle is available - or, failing that, an assault rifle and grenade launcher.
Corporal Lee Watkins had the dubious fortune of being on the last flight out of Malbork before the nukes hit. Unfortunately, his destination was even worse. He and the rest of II Squadron of the RAF Regiment dropped on Siauliai, attempting to retake the Lithanian airport before the Russians could consolidate their hold on it. The squadron held up its end of the operation, but EU follow-on support never materialized. After the bloody breakout into the Lithuanian countryside, Lee spent a couple of months on his own before linking up with the rest of the team.
Lee's a working-class Brit of average height and (for 2013) average build, a man for whom the RAF was the best possible option for getting out of his old neighborhood. The euphemism that best applies to him is "good with his hands," whether the game is fisticuffs or his preferred light machine gun.
Casimir Rakowski was born in rural Poland in 1956, when the hand of Communism rested heavily upon the country. His father and grandfather had both been anti-Soviet partisans in World War II, and Casimir was raised on two generations' worth of hatred for the Russians. As soon as he was old enough, he was inducted into the family business: a loose coalition of poachers, smugglers, bootleggers, and occasional local assets for the NATO espionage community. The collapse of Communism in 1990 did little to affect Casimir's work, aside from making border crossings easier and bringing in occasional legitimate money as a hunting guide for rich Westerners. The Twilight War, on the other hand, was a serious obstacle to his daily routine. Although he was too old to volunteer for military service, Casimir's eyes were as good as ever, and a lifetime of hunting was more than enough to overcome the first twinges of arthritis. He linked up with a Polish infantry division whose commander was smart enough to see his value as a scout, and for the past year he's been back in the other family business: stalking and killing Russians.
Casimir is a squat, thick Slav, standing only 1.6 meters tall. With his graying beard, scarred and weathered face, and work-gnarled hands, he can fit into virtually any survivor community in the region without arousing so much as a second glance. He carries his old hunting shotgun, a Russian sniper rifle whose previous owner no longer needs it, and a fine collection of cutlery.
Jurgen Presser is a German freelance photojournalist with a history of sticking his lens in humanitarian crises. The good news is that he doesn't have to look very far for material now. The bad news is that he's just as deep in the shit as everyone else. Jurgen has a decent amount of rescue training and is a lifelong adrenaline junkie (rock climbing, SCUBA, and skydiving). He's staying with the rest of the group for protection, as the only embedding a lone reporter's likely to do these days is in fresh-turned earth.
No matter how bad things get, Jurgen somehow manages to look at least somewhat clean. He usually looks at least a decade younger than his actual age of 34. Although he's seen as much of the war as anyone else, Jurgen is as much of a moral compass as the group has. He does know how to use a rifle - barely - but if a fight breaks out, he's more likely to have a camera or his aid bag in his hands.
Michael Kemp was an infantry platoon leader in the Blues and Royals until a training accident ended his military career. After an extended convalescence, he used his regimental connections to secure a job in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, working for the military attache of the British embassy in Warsaw. He's a bit vague on how he wound up so close to the front lines during the latter months of the war, mumbling something about fact-finding missions and ministers without portfolios.
Michael is as close to average-looking as it's possible to get without a computer model. With a change of clothes and accent, he'd look like a native anywhere from his native Southampton to the Mediterranean basin. Although he carries a chopped-down assault rifle for the sake of appearances, he's much better up close and personal with a pistol.